


Origins

by accidentallyonpurpose



Category: Twilight (Movies), Twilight Series - All Media Types, Twilight Series - Stephenie Meyer
Genre: F/M, Origin Story, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Protective Carlisle Cullen, Suicide Attempt, Vampires, carlisle saves people
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-03
Updated: 2019-12-03
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:33:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21662983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/accidentallyonpurpose/pseuds/accidentallyonpurpose
Summary: a series of one-shots showing how all the Cullens became vampires
Relationships: Alice Cullen/Jasper Hale, Carlisle Cullen/Esme Cullen, Emmett Cullen/Rosalie Hale
Kudos: 7





	Origins

Blood. Rushing in his ears, racing through his veins. He could feel it pounding in his head, drowning out all other noises.

He nervously flicked back the lock of hair that kept flopping into his eyes. He was pressed against a damp wall, rusty sword held loosely in one hand, stake tucked into his belt. A group of ten village-men surrounded him, ranging from the local blacksmith to the baker.

Carlisle lifted a finger to his lips, peering around the corner. They were in the sewers of London, the smell of human waste thick around them. Some of the men had pulled out kerchiefs and held them to their noses or tied them around their faces, hoping to block out the smell. The walls dripped with a dark liquid that no one wanted to contemplate, barely visible in the dim halls. 

Carlisle had taken over the hunts that his father when he passed away, almost a year ago now. Although he didn’t share the penchant for killing that his father had, he was passionate about the laws of the Lord, and felt he was carrying out the Lord’s will in finding and eradicating all supernatural and unnatural beings. 

There was the sound of scuffling further down the sewer they were standing in. Carlisle craned his neck, trying to see around the corner. Farther down he saw a group of darkly-dressed figures huddled near the end of the tunnel. He signaled to the group around him and, as one, they raised their weapons. With a battle cry, Carlisle led the charge around the corner, the ragtag group straggling at his back, equally as enthusiastic. 

Carlisle hefted his sword up, aiming for the tall figure closest to him. Before the figure could turn around, he had sliced the head from the shoulders. 

The men around him were bolstered, advancing with renewed vigor and slashing at their opponents. Carlisle looked around, grinning wolfishly at the men around him. When he turned back, he lifted his sword, saw a flash of sharp teeth, and his world went black. 

Carlisle woke an indeterminate amount of time later, his whole being on fire. He screamed, hands scrabbling at the burning spot on his chest. It felt like he was being set on fire, turned inside out, and then stabbed by a million tiny needles. He sank thankfully into the black that crept over his consciousness. 

He came to again, the pain more of a continuous ember under his skin. He seemed more sensitive, every inch of skin ten times more receptive. He felt his fingers twitch, felt the air disturbed around where they had twitched. He looked up, seeing the particles that made up the black sludge coated on the top of the tunnel where he lay. His eyes shifted, and he felt his lashes shift as well. He lifted his hand up, turning it front and back. Every pore and follicle stood out in great detail. He shifted his head and pain lanced sharply through it, turning his vision red. He cried out, hands cradling his head as a roll of nausea overcame him. He fell gratefully into unconsciousness.

He awoke one more time, and the fire inside him had finally died down to a scratchy burning in his throat, as if he hadn’t had anything to drink in days. His hand wrapped around it, trying uselessly to work out the pain. He coughed, but it did nothing. 

Slowly, he pushed himself up onto his hands and knees. When he didn’t immediately feel nauseous, he pushed himself all the way up onto his feet, one hand bracing against the wall beside him. He walked a few steps down the hall. Although he was no longer in pain, he was weak, every step taking more effort than it should. 

He slowly made his way out of the sewers and, over the course of the rest of the night, to his farm on the outskirts of London. He didn’t cross paths with anyone on his way there. 

When he finally made it in to his small cabin, he fetched water from a bucket and guzzled it down. Frustrated that it did not quench his thirst, Carlisle threw the ladle he had been using across the room. He looked down into the bucket and stopped cold at what he saw. He stooped down so that he was closer to the water, squinting at his reflection. Frantically, he raced over to his side table and lit a candle, fingers fumbling to light the match. He brought the light back over with him, holding it close to the water in the bucket. His reflection frowned as he looked deep into his own eyes. Where before they were an attractive blue, now they were pitch black. He rubbed his eyes, looking back into the bucket and despairing when black eyes still looked back at him. 

He was so lost in thought that he didn’t notice time passing. He was ripped out of his thoughts by a knocking on his door. 

“Pastor, are you in?” came a voice from outside. Anne, the local seamstress and recent widow, was calling from the other side. Carlisle hesitantly went to the door and, as he got closer, a scent filtered weakly through the door. Instinctively he drew closer, faster than he intended and thumping gently against door in his haste. He jerked back, hand gripping onto the handle as the all consuming thought of “drink, quench, thirsty, drink” over and over. His hand tightened on the wooden handle, and it splintered between his fingers. 

This ripped him out of his stupor and he took a few frantic steps away. 

“Pastor, are you okay?”

“I’m- ” he started, his voice catching around his dry throat. “I’m… I’m not well. Please, leave me.”

“I’ll come back later, then,” Anne said gently. “I’ve brought a loaf of bread. Shall I leave it on the step?”

“Thank you,” Carlisle tried to talk while not breathing, words slipping through his teeth. He could tell when she had left because the smell drifted away, the severity of his thirst dying to a dry ache.

Carlisle stumbled to his bed, sitting heavily on the edge and dropping his head into his hands. Before he could gather the strength to fight them off, tears washed down his face, heavy sobs wracking his body as he came to terms with what he had become. 

He sat on his bed hopelessly as he let the despair and anger and grief for his lost life wrap around him. He knew what his father would have thought if he knew what he had become. He knew that a cursed life was not a life worth living.  
Eventually, with tears still streaming down his face, he stood and frantically ran out the door and towards the woods surrounding his farms. He ran blindly, not caring where he ended up. Twigs scraped against his exposed arms and snagged at his clothes, ripping and tearing them. Carlisle paid no heed, letting the nicks and scrapes spur him forward. He ran towards a series of bluffs that were at the other end of the forest. He ran, letting the trees scratch and grab at his skin and clothes uncaringly. When he had reached the bluffs, he threw himself off without hesitation. 

He felt his stomach drop out as the air screamed by his ears. He hit the bottom faster than he thought he would, pain exploding sharply through him. He couldn’t think, the pain overtaking him.

He had landed in the ravine that snaked at the bottom of the cliffs. The first thing he felt was anger and disappointment that he was still alive. He turned his head out of the water, a sob wracking his body. He stood, looking blearily around himself. He spotted a crevice in the bluff a little ways away and tiredly dragged himself towards it. He collapsed into the small cave, determined to waste away to nothing in this tiny hole.

It was three days later when a small fox picked it’s way delicately through the ravine, nose snuffing carefully along the brush in the ravine.

Carlisle, laying half in and half out of the cave, stirred softly when he heard rocks being shifted under light paws. Suddenly, his throat burned and he was consumed with a blinding, gnawing thirst. He turned, preternaturally quick and raised on his fingers and toes. He leaped forward on all fours, taking the fox in his arms and clamping it to his chest. He sealed his mouth on its jugular, quickly tearing and latching onto the gush of blood that came out. He felt a relief wash over him as the blood coated his throat, curing the dryness that had plagued him. He sobbed in relief, laughing weakly at the reprieve. He continued to feed until no more blood came from the animal, and then he discarded the dry carcass. He spared a moment for the life he had taken but ultimately, he was elated. He could continue to live without taking human lives. 

He closed his eyes, letting his nose lead him to his next meal.


End file.
